by L G Rollins
Martha set her spoon down. When she’d been a little girl, her mother had always sent a member of the household staff to market. It was yet another chore they could no longer afford to pay someone else to do.
“Were you boys both good today?” she asked. She would sit for five minutes—only five—and then she would hurry to the market. She could do this. She could push on a bit longer.
She only needed five minutes first.
“Uh-hum,” Tim said as he shoveled soup into his mouth.
“Martin showed me how to add large sums and then how to figure the amount of seed a farmer would need for a field.” Peter lit up while speaking. “Then we snuck into his father’s study room and looked over his books.”
“Peter, you know better than that.” What if Martin’s father had caught the boys? She didn’t know the man well and wasn’t at all sure how he would have responded.
“Oh, it’s all right. Martin’s father caught us, so it wasn’t really sneaking in the end,” Peter added easily.
Martha felt her tired back ache anew. She should have been home, should have been here to keep Peter in line. “What did he say?”
Peter sat up straighter. “He said I have a solid mind for numbers. Says I might make a good man of business someday.”
That had been it? Oh, thank goodness. “You do have a good head for numbers. I’ve always thought so. And I think becoming a man of business would suit you well. It is a very honorable profession.”
Of a truth, it was one she could see him being very happy in. Tim chimed in, and soon the boys were making jokes with their grandfather. Martha picked up her spoon once more. Yet another day had passed, and everything had gone fine while she was away. She consistently wavered between feeling relieved that things were going as well as they were and worried that they couldn’t go this well forever.
She forced herself to eat three bites then stood. “I’m afraid I can’t finish my soup tonight. Will one of you do it for me?”
Peter and Tim chorused that they would. Martha instructed they share and went to grab her pelisse and best pair of gloves. She only had two sets left to her name, and while both were worn, one was distinctly more tattered than the other. Pulling them on, Martha set her jaw. She would make this trip short and then not bother to clean the house or pick up her sewing tonight. She only had this one thing left to do today and then she could sleep.
Until morning. When she would have to wake up and do it all over again.
Oh, how she prayed she would grow accustomed to this new life quickly. With a hurried farewell, she opened the door and stepped outside. The sounds of horses met her immediately. Even in the winter, she could smell them most profusely. Did the smell of horses linger on her clothing? She sincerely hoped not. Her mind moved back to that moment, several days ago, when the Silent Duke had moved up close to her. She’d smelt the pine trees and sandalwood soap on him. Heaven help her, but if he’d smelled horse on her, she’d die of embarrassment.
Martha hurried past the stalls as quickly as she could, but the small path was icy, and it took more time and more energy than she could like. Nonetheless, she arrived at Dunwell just as the sun was dancing across the horizon. The one benefit of shopping at this time of day was she felt certain she wouldn’t run into any of her acquaintances. If any of them learned that she was shopping for her own food, the last few people who still deigned to speak with her would probably stop posthaste.
In the past, whenever she had happened across someone she knew, Martha had always lied and said she was out looking for better gloves, or a nicer dress. So far, it had worked.
She slowed her step as she approached the fishmonger’s store. Martha glanced all about her, but no one was walking the street. Thankfully. She darted inside. The next hour was spent in much the same way. Hurrying to a shop, making sure no one was watching, then rushing inside, making a quick and small order, and then checking the street outside before leaving once more.
Just as the last rays of light were dwindling, Martha finished her last order. She turned her steps toward home and hurried as fast as she could manage. All that was left was to hurry home and collapse into bed.
She’d survived one more day.
“Good evening, Miss Cratchit.”
Martha stopped but hid her groan. She’d been so hopeful she wouldn’t have to speak with anyone and delay her blissful trip into oblivion much longer.
She turned and found Lord Comerford smiling back at her.
Oh, great. Him.
Lord Comerford was thin and tall, though not as tall as the Silent Duke; she’d only come up to the duke’s shoulder while she reached closer to Lord Comerford’s cheek. A very gaunt cheek it was, too. One that was never—or at least in her blessedly limited experience—pulled back in a smile or relaxed in a reassuring calm. No doubt, beneath his tall hat, his hair was perfectly set. He had not buttoned the top of his greatcoat and she could see the precisely folded mathematician at his throat. Rather an extravagant tie for nothing more than going into town.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, bobbing a small curtsy. Bridget had once called him a paragon; the chills Martha got whenever he was around, however, had nothing to do with his good looks and everything to do with the coldness in his eyes.
“What is a lovely lady like yourself doing out when it’s near dark?” His voice dropped low, almost sultry. “And alone, no less?”
Martha lifted her chin, though her hands started to shake. It was probably simply from exhaustion, yet her current company was no doubt also to blame. “I was seeing to a pair of gloves I ordered some time ago. I cannot imagine what has delayed them being delivered.”
“Oh? How distressing.” Before she could step away, Lord Comerford took hold of her hand in a quick and smooth swipe. He pressed his fingers too tightly around it for her to pull her hand away. Dull pain pulsed where he held her. “And now you are forced to wear these, which are so clearly worn.” He tutted. “How dreadful.”
At least these clearly worn gloves kept him from seeing the state of her hands. Martha tried to pull her hand back. “Please, sir, it is not so troublesome as all that.” She hadn’t actually given her gloves more than a passing thought in over a year. It was hard to care about something so insignificant when one wasn’t sure if food would be available tomorrow, or if they’d have heat during the winter.
Lord Comerford didn’t let go, but instead, very slowly, lifted it to his mouth and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. It sent a tremble up her arm, one she had to fight hard to keep from showing. Instead of stepping away, Lord Comerford turned her hand over and made as though he intended to kiss her palm as well.
Martha yanked her hand back. Her glove slipped off in the process, remaining, limp, in his hand.
“Oh, my dear,” Lord Comerford said, his eyes alight with something wild and terrifying, “what a sweet present from such a sweet and beautiful lady.”
Martha tried to keep her breathing even. If he saw how much he upended her, it would only make matters worse. “Please, my lord; return my glove.”
His smile grew more unnerving as he lifted her glove to his face and breathed it in.
She hoped he got a nose full of horse droppings.
If he did, he didn’t let on. Instead, he continued to hold it close to his face, going so far as to rub it against his insipid cheek. “I think I shall hang on to this little . . . token of our providential meeting.”
Martha kept her ungloved hand behind her back. Who knew what he’d do if he saw the cracks and dried blood there. “I demand you return my glove.”
“There is no reason for show, Miss Cratchit.” He stepped closer and Martha was forced to step back. “There is no one else around.”
No, there wasn’t. No one to call, no one who could step in should he . . .
Martha spun on her heel and hurried off. The cold bite of winter wind burned at her cheeks, but she didn’t slow.
Behind her, Lord Comerford only laughed. �
��Fly away, my frightened bird.” His cackle seemed to nip at her heels as she rushed back toward home.
Martha awoke with a start the next morning. The cold feel of a hand painfully holding her own had haunted her dreams. Sitting up in bed, she rubbed her hands together; if only she could scour the uncomfortable, prickling sensation away. Her hands were still sore, and the rubbing did nothing but agitate them.
She glanced over to the window which hung next to her bed and pulled the sheer, worn curtain back. The world was not so dark outside; sunrise would be here soon. Botheration. She would be late again. Martha hurried from bed and moved as quickly as she could through her morning.
She arrived at the vicarage before the top of the sun could be seen, but dawn was, nonetheless, clearly upon them. Mrs. Gale ranted as long and harsh as Martha had expected and then pushed her toward the church house with a bucket of wet, old tea leaves.
Martha entered the chapel, the well-oiled doors opening noiselessly and shutting behind her equally as quiet. At least sweeping up dust was a task she’d done many times before. She didn’t look forward to getting her hands wet—again—while sprinkling the tea leaves around. But they were good at collecting dust; once the leaves were dry, she would sweep them up, leaves and dust alike, and remove them from the room. Martha had no notion who had come up with the practice first, but she’d readily admit it was a practical one. Otherwise, sweeping simply kicked dust into the air, leaving it to settle about the room again.
Martha’s hands hurt as she forced them down into the soppy mess of wet tea leaves. They ached to the point that tears came to her eyes. Still, she set her jaw and went about sprinkling the leaves around the room. She started in one corner, moved down the aisle, along the back of the room, and up the other aisle, ending where she’d started.
Now, to let them dry.
Mrs. Gale had instructed Martha that she also needed the linens from the back room taken down and washed. She would start that while the leaves dried. Leaving her bucket and broom in the corner, Martha slipped out a side door and hurried off to complete her next task, hoping that she wouldn’t get blood on the curtains as she washed them.
Chapter Five
Hugh slipped through the back door of the church house. The place seemed empty. However, last time he was here this early there had been that slip of a girl here too. Well, not a girl, exactly. He hadn’t missed that, petite though she was, she most certainly had not been shaped like a little girl. Though her dress had been nothing to brag about, it had shown her soft curves in a way Hugh had found alarmingly distracting.
Nor had he been able to forget the way her eyes sparked when she adamantly stated that she had to keep her position.
If she was so bent on remaining, would she be here again today? And since when did the vicar have funds for a second maid? He already had a housekeeper. Perhaps he should speak with Mr. Jakob. The position of vicar in Dunwell was Hugh’s to give or take, after all. That meant it was his responsibility to see that all was going well. Yes, he would need to speak with Mr. Jakob. That was the responsible thing to do. It had nothing to do with his curiosity regarding the slender woman he’d met a few days ago.
Hugh pushed opened a side door. The chapel was empty.
Which was a good thing.
Exactly what he’d hoped for.
The small twinge he felt in his chest was not disappointment—only relief.
He took a step, and something crunched beneath his boot. Tea leaves were scattered across the floor.
Ah, so someone was here.
He paused and listened. He couldn’t hear anyone. But with leaves on the floor—no doubt for the express purpose to gather dust—someone would be returning eventually. Though, they might not be back soon, per se.
He probably had a couple of minutes at least.
He’d trekked all the way out here; he hated to return without sitting for a moment or so.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t go walking over all the leaves. He didn’t know much about dusting a room. All right, so he knew nothing about dusting a room. He’d always had maids to do that. But he hated the thought of walking across the floor, crushing all the leaves along the way, and making it harder for whoever was dusting.
Still, he couldn’t just stand here in the doorway.
The front most pew, however, was not that far off. He leaned forward, his hand reaching it easily. It wasn’t so very far, but his thick greatcoat and, beneath that, his stiff jacket, bit uncomfortably into his shoulder and upper arms at the stretch. He propped one foot on the seat, then pulled himself up onto it. Standing atop the pew, he looked around.
There, not a single leaf disturbed.
He shrugged out of his greatcoat and then his jacket, leaving both draped over the back of the pew.
From one pew to another, he moved through the chapel. It was proving rather a fun challenge, actually, getting to his favorite spot without touching the floor.
He reached it without incident and made to sit. Of course, once he sat he’d need to place his feet on the floor. He had absolutely no intention of being caught lying down again.
It was tricky, but he managed to kneel on the pew, reach down with one hand, and brush a few leaves away, making a spot for his feet. He sat in his usual spot feeling quite victorious.
Not five minutes later, a rush of cold air slipped past Hugh from behind. Someone must have opened the main door. With his usual scowl in place, Hugh turned around.
It was that same woman as before.
He shook his head with a grunt, falling easily into the role of portraying displeasure and annoyance. Turning, he faced the front of the chapel once more.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” she said to his back. “It’ll only take me a minute to get these leaves out of your way.”
It didn’t escape him that she didn’t even bother to ask his permission this time. She simply stated that she would be doing her job. Yes, she’d said it in a polite way, but a true maid would have asked if he wanted her to sweep with him in the room or not.
Which was one more reason Hugh didn’t believe this woman was truly a maid. Or at least, not one who’d been born and raised to be such. He’d thought she was, at first glance, but he’d grown suspicious as soon as she’d spoken. Her tone was one of a gently bred lady, there was no mistaking that.
Even now, though he didn’t look her way, he was fully aware of where she stood in the room by the sound of her broom scratching against the floor. If her tone had not given her away last time, her obstinacy would have.
What had led this determined lady to take a position working for Mr. Jakob?
She moved up toward his right, quickly sweeping up the leaves. He kept his eyes trained on the top of the scissor arch in front of him. She moved across the front. Her hair was dark, swept back into a knot at the base of her neck. Several curls had broken free, however, and tumbled down either side of her face. She had a small nose, pert and turned up slightly.
Finally, she moved to his left, still wordlessly sweeping. He only needed to stay focused on the arch a few minutes longer and she’d leave—he wouldn’t think about the strange jumble such a thought left his stomach.
The scratching of her broom stopped. He knew full well that she hadn’t finished the floor, and that she remained where she stood, near the front but on the left side. Near the door he’d entered.
“How did you . . .?”
Her voice brought his head around. Not that he couldn’t have ignored her if he wished it, only he was unsure what she was speaking of. Besides, he was a gentleman, and it would have been rude to ignore her.
She stood directly in front of the pew where his greatcoat and jacket rested. Ah, blast. He’d completely forgotten he’d taken those off. He’d only done so for greater arm movement, in an effort to get to his preferred seat. With a heated tingling which coursed over his skin, he became wholly aware she was seeing him in only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
The woman angled the broom in f
ront of her and stalked quickly down the aisle toward him, brushing all leaves out of her way as she went. She walked directly up to his pew and stared at him, her gaze quickly leaving him and moving to the floor beneath his feet.
The floor where not a leaf sat beneath his boots, yet not one was crushed to either side of him either.
“How did you get there?” she asked, pointing at him as though he didn’t know precisely where his own person sat.
Her confusion was charming. Hugh had to fight a bit of a smile—a new sensation for him. He only stared back and shrugged. Let her figure it out. He wasn’t about to enlighten her.
She twisted back, looking to his greatcoat and jacket, and then once more at him. Her brow was low, and her lips pursed—quite a lovely shade of pink they were, too.
Eventually, she shrugged as well, as though unable to make heads or tails of the situation, and instead reached her broom toward him, sweeping up the leaves between his pew and the next.
“Either way, I must express my gratitude. Crushed tea leaves are a nightmare to sweep up.”
He’d imagined so.
She pushed one bit of leaves her way, then reached out with the broom once again to get the rest. Hugh’s eyes landed on her hands. They were chapped to the point of cracking. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a bit of dried blood on a couple of her knuckles as well.
So she was a properly bred lady who’d only recently taken up being a maid for the vicar. Interesting.
“Between you and me,” she continued, moving the growing pile of dried leave out into the aisle, “I have far too many pressing needs to worry about crushed leaves.”
She sounded worn thin. No doubt, it was not easy for a lady of status to take up the hard, never-ending work of a maid. And that didn’t even take into account her having to bear whatever burden had fallen on her which required she seek a position.
His mouth opened, and words inexplicably came out. “You could sit—”